RS 03

Chapter 3

Anais caught Dolores pretending to stand en pointe by herself.

“What ridiculous thing are you doing?”

At Anais’s direct question, Dolores gathered her courage and confessed that she had become interested in ballet.

“Keep it a secret.”

“Why?”

“Because Dad will obviously hate it.”

“He should hate it, but you never know, do you? Ask Mom and Dad to let you learn. Sister, it looked funny just now, but it was cool.”

Anais did not seem particularly interested herself, but neither did she make fun of Dolores.

Looking back, the encouragement of her little sister had been the first drop of courage that set everything in motion.

When Dolores found the courage to ask her parents for something for the first time in her life, the result was devastating.

Her mother merely reacted with mild skepticism toward the genre of dance called “ballet,” but her father went absolutely berserk.

Every day, he shouted at her to stop doing something so improper with her body.

The reason for his deep prejudice was that, in his hometown of Victoria, dancers were generally regarded as members of the lower class.

But this was Bellov, where many children from well-to-do families learned ballet as a hobby.

Even so, her father was not kind enough to listen to the words of an eleven-year-old girl.

Why was her father still living as though he were in Victoria, even though five years had passed since they immigrated?

Despite her father’s fierce opposition, Dolores did not give up.

She was stubborn enough to surprise even herself.

Whenever her father was in a good mood, or whenever she could rely on her mother’s kindness, she repeatedly begged to be allowed to learn ballet.

She even coaxed Anais and Pablo into joining her pleas.

“I want my big sister to do ballet!”

About a year later, in the summer when Dolores was twelve, her mother, feeling sorry for her young daughter’s wish, secretly gave her permission.

On the condition that they did not tell her father.

It was a great victory, if nothing else.

Dolores received private ballet lessons twice a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays, rather than attending the ballet classes offered at the parish school.

She could not attend the school ballet classes because they were recorded on her academic report card.

“This is the girl?”

The ballet teacher who took on Dolores as a private student was, unexpectedly, a famous ballerina named Marguerite Salle, formerly of the Aquine Public Troupe.

“She is a little tall, but being slender is certainly an advantage. Her arches aren’t particularly high… but she has good flexibility in her insteps. …Her turnout angle is terrible. …Ah, don’t make that disappointed face. If she’s never properly studied before, it’s far too early to discuss talent. Madam, do you really think I would neglect your daughter? I’ll do my very best to teach her.”

Her mother’s connections had once again proven their worth.

Marguerite was said to have been such an outstanding ballerina that even the Lenore Opera Troupe had tried to recruit her.

In Dolores’s eyes, she really was a wonderful teacher.

It seemed like such a waste for someone of her caliber to spend her days giving private lessons in a small city like Aquine.

Unable to contain her curiosity one day, Dolores asked,

“Why don’t you perform on a bigger stage, Teacher?”

It was a question asked without realizing that it might be inappropriate.

Marguerite’s eyes quickly reddened.

Dolores did not know what had happened to her, but even with her young heart, she could understand that her teacher carried some kind of wound.

“It’s a good life, teaching you children without being too ambitious. Dancing is my everything now.”

It was only much later that Dolores learned that Marguerite had loved someone, had been all but abandoned by him, and had consequently shut herself away in this little town.

An abyss.

It was an emotion Dolores could never presume to understand, but at that moment, she felt the profound weight behind her teacher’s declaration that dancing had become her entire life.

Dolores herself often became possessed by a strange, almost frightening exhilaration whenever she put on her soft ballet shoes and stood before the mirror.

“…I think I understand, somehow.”

“You do?”

Marguerite gave a brief laugh, as though pleased by her student’s insight.

“When will I be able to walk on my toes like you, Teacher?”

“Well, if you learn to listen to music and allow your toes to speak as though they were writing poetry, your talent will shine like a star. You’ll become an étoile.”

“I already love music. I listen to it all the time.”

“Opening your heart is different from simply listening. What I experienced was… something like that. When you truly communicate with it through your heart, you feel as though you disappear. And then you fall into endless love. It’s as if, even if you suddenly died while dancing with the music as your escort… no, perhaps that would be the most beautiful death of all.”

As Marguerite spoke, she seemed intoxicated by something.

As though the mere imagination of dancing across a magnificent stage was the one thing that allowed her to remain alive and breathing.

Dolores imagined that feeling every day.

That winter, when she was approaching thirteen, her life encountered its first wave.

The night remained vivid in her mind, like the only memory from that hazy year that had been painted over with color.

The lesson had ended long ago.

Dolores, a yellow scarf wrapped around her neck, anxiously watched the snow falling outside the window as she waited for her mother.

Not a single carriage passed along the road, while the street gas lamps merely flickered.

As time passed, fear began to grow inside her.

It was an anxiety she had been feeling increasingly often lately—a vague terror that she might not be able to see her family again.

And that day, as though that anxiety had become reality, an excessive amount of snow happened to fall around her home.

Her mother could no longer come to pick her up.

“Why are you so worried? You’ll only have to stay with your teacher for tonight.”

“…I don’t know.”

“Dolores, you’re a clever and intelligent girl, so I’m sure you know how much your mother loves you.”

For some reason, Dolores began to cry.

She missed her mother.

She missed her father.

She missed Anais and Pablo.

Now she understood how adolescence could visit a child’s heart, but at the time, she could not distinguish what exactly she was sad about or what she was afraid of.

Marguerite approached with the clicking sound of pointe shoes Dolores had always admired so much and gently pulled her into her arms.

“Then, shall I tell you my secret tonight?”

Her teacher whispered like the snowy night itself.

“Your secret?”

“Yes. We’re going on an adventure.”

And so…

Segno.

It began with a plié.

Her knees bent softly, and her body came into harmony with the music.

Then a relevé.

The body that had paused for a moment rose lightly, as though it had forgotten gravity.

Wearing an elegant silk dress, Marguerite moved across a carpet patterned with geometric designs like a butterfly.

Tendu.

The tips of her toes pushed slowly against the floor, drawing a line.

Then relevé, followed by another tendu.

As the music lowered, the tips of her toes fell as though brushing the floor, cutting through the air.

She quickly transitioned into a passé, lifting one leg above knee height, and then moved into an arabesque without the slightest disruption.

The long line of her back was beautiful like a mountain ridge, while her gaze, fixed toward the distance, was filled with longing.

Then she bent her body slightly into an attitude.

And when the sound of the viola grew fierce—

As though she had been waiting for that very moment, she rose onto her toes and began to turn.

And turned, and turned, and turned…

The moment the final rotation came to a stop, the music ended.

The dance was over.

Marguerite spread her hands wide, then brought them together gracefully as she bowed, breathing heavily.

Dolores watched the way her teacher’s neck rose and fell, the way her fingertips trembled, and the rhythm of her breathing.

It had been a breathtaking performance.

“Not bad.”

A woman with richly curled brown hair swept neatly back said it.

It was an appallingly rude remark.

How could someone watch a ballet like that and say nothing more than that?

The arrogant audience members continued talking as they pleased.

“As expected from Lady Rou’s eye for talent, I suppose this much was inevitable. Ballet like this is perfect for a night with such an atmosphere. As expected, Lady Rou’s artistic sensibility is…”

Dolores could not understand.

How could they judge Marguerite’s performance like that?

Who exactly was Lady Rou that everyone was acting this way around her?

But Marguerite simply bowed her head as though she were accustomed to it and stepped down from the stage.

It was hardly a stage at all—just a narrow platform at the far end of a spacious living room.

The place Marguerite had brought her was the salon of a woman named Lady Anne Rou.

Sir Raymond Rou was a highly respected public official and prominent figure in Aquine, but Lady Anne Rou was even more famous.

If Lady Rocheize de Moltemar was immensely popular in the west, then in Aquine, Lady Anne Rou was said to be even more influential than Lady Moltemar.

Lady Rou held a salon once every quarter, spending time with various prominent figures.

Whenever the salon was held, Marguerite earned extra income by entertaining them with short performances.

Feeling inexplicably miserable, Dolores waited blankly for Marguerite while listening to voices that darted back and forth like pen nibs, letter openers, and broken fingernails.

“…Those women are ridiculous and stingy…”

“…I heard the Textile Artisans’ Union say last time that Crepin, the clothing company, is on the rise these days…”

“You’re joking. What kind of creativity can we expect from people who grow mustaches and swagger around…?”

“The Bonels are still practically newcomers…”

“Come to think of it, have you heard about that?”

“I have a relative in Lenore…”

“Have the Kiwis’ assembly been prohibited? A law was passed this time…”

“I’m looking forward to it…”

“These days, there’s been so much talk. Oh, the Romerto Journal published an article about it recently. I was invited by a gentleman who has connections to the nephew of Count Peregrine…”

“Then isn’t he practically a stranger?”

Amid the countless conversations, sharp points were hidden like needles.

“But what about Baron Billy, who moved here recently? He must be one of the ‘transferred people,’ right?”

“He’s exactly that sort of person. You can tell just by hearing the name. How unpleasant.”

Dolores unconsciously hunched her shoulders.